


The Open Sea

by kasviel



Category: Disney - All Media Types, Pocahontas (Disney 1995)
Genre: Discipline, M/M, Romance, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-14
Updated: 2020-05-14
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:40:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24182233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kasviel/pseuds/kasviel
Summary: This is a disciplinary romance story featuring John Smith and Thomas from Disney's "Pocahontas". A very early favorite pairing of mine. It takes place before the events of the movie, during the voyage to the New World (which Thomas was such a disaster during).
Relationships: John Smith/Thomas (Disney: Pocahontas)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 23





	1. Chapter 1

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

In 1607

We sail the open sea

For Glory

God

And Gold

And the

Virgina Company

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

**Chapter One**

Captain John Smith looked into the clear blue skies overhead and smiled. He held the wheel with his elbows as he rolled up his sleeves, warm even in the chilled January air. It felt good to be out on the open sea again. The salty, heady smell of the air, the blazing wild sun, the sense of adventure-- What man with blood in his veins and a heartbeat in his chest could help being invigorated by such things?

As John reveled in the lonely freedom of sailing the ocean, one of the young settlers stumbled past him woozily. The youth leaned over the railing, looking as if he might be sick. A moment later, he was. John shook his head in pitying disgust at the sight. Alas, this was no battle ship, and many of these men were not sailors. To their credit, most of them were holding up now, after a month at sea. There was always the one lad, though, in every gang of new sailors: that one youth closer to boyhood than manhood, and not robust in either regard. On a battleship, those lads usually were the first to fall. John's mouth set into a grim line. Perhaps it was a good thing not to be sailing anything more dangerous than a settlement expedition, after all. He had seen far too much death, knew he would see more, but death at sea was somehow the more pitifully forlorn.

The young man slumped onto the deck after vomiting, looking nearly dead himself. He wondered how the rest of the men came by their vigor so easily? The sun was too bright, the air too cold, and the atmosphere was suffocatingly heavy with the sickening odor of the sea. Who could honestly endure this with no complaint whatsoever? Yet the rest of the men did, going about their duties with a bizarrely natural grace, or in the very least capable aptitude. Some even seemed to enjoy sailing! What sort of man could possibly, _possibly_ enjoy this watery hell?

The young man glanced over at the captain, and sighed. _**He**_ _can,_ he thought wistfully. _Captain John Smith: soldier, hero, adventurer, explorer. He doesn't see the world, he_ _ **lives**_ _it. Look at him, he's right at home! It must be wonderful to be a man like that._

From the corners of his blue eyes, John caught the youth's admiring gaze, and he knew what the man must be thinking. Though he was glad to be appreciated, he knew too much admiration was a dangerous thing. It could lead a weak man to stop thinking for himself and become a doting follower, or despair a weaker man into a self-hating misery. It could also lead a strong man into violent jealousy, and hence cause an unnecessary competition to take place during crucial moments. Smith was a natural born leader, but he liked to have a sense of camaraderie with his mates. Being served by men that did not mind so much serving you was crucial when a crisis arose.

Smith marked the lad as a potential problem, but for the moment, gave him what he needed: a firm command to stir him from idleness and make him forget his sea-sickness. “On your feet, lad!” he called. “The journey is long, but not long enough to allow for lollygagging about the ship.”

The youth was startled by the scolding, regardless of its mildness. He jumped to his feet, almost falling over the railing due to his lack of balance, and straightened the lopsided green cap atop his head. “Y-y-yes sir!” he shouted back, stumbling back to work.

Smith turned his eyes to the sky again, annoyed by the lad's overzealous obedience. That one was not very strong, and far too young; he looked little more than a child. Children were still used to having a parent to guide them, teach then, protect them. Those were fatal flaws that the heart of wilderness would not forgive. Even grown men were turned helpless and afraid when alienated from their normal world, it was no place whatever for a child.

John glanced over at the crew, spotted the youth giving him nervous glances. He wanted approval. John forced his gaze away. Men were picked out for their errors, never for their good work; that way, doing your job well would be taken for granted.

Such were the thoughts of the Captain. Personally, John felt sympathy towards the awkward youth, and found his admiration somewhat flattering. He seemed a nice boy, and now he was working diligently enough. It was a shame Smith would have to be so hard on him, but that was the way of things out here. Only the real men survived in the wild, and it was Smith's duty as a captain to make a man out of even that poor, fretful boy.

* * *

The task proved to be a larger one than John had initially suspected. The redheaded lad, 'Thomas' was his name, still wobbled on his fledgling sea legs, and he was constantly seasick. His blatant hero worship of Smith was becoming embarrassing, and he was also beginning to rely heavily on the older, more seaworthy of the settlers. He followed the men around like an anxious puppy, uncomfortably eager to please. He was also damnably clumsy.

Unfortunately, John was not the only one to take notice of the lad's glaring faults. The haughty Governor Ratcliffe nearly lost his lap dog when Thomas tripped over rope coils and bumped into him. Though Thomas apologized profusely, both the dog and his master were livid. Ratcliffe asked why a mere child was on board, and upon hearing there were other young ones on board, he retorted that only children got underfoot, hence Thomas was the only child to his eyes.

“That boy is a disgrace,” Ratcliffe told John Smith later when they were discussing the course over maps in Ratcliffe's quarters. “I know you like to be lenient with your men, Smith, but I insist that you do something about him.”

“I completely agree.”

Ratcliffe opened his mouth to argue, then shut it. “You . . . do?”

“Wholeheartedly,” a pensive Smith replied. He was still pouring over the maps, but he was solely contemplating the blundering young Thomas. “I'm afraid he simply isn't taking to the reality of being at sea. A lad like that needs a strong dose of it, to take it in all at once. It will happen sooner or later, but it would be best if I were the one that dealt the blow.”

“I do hope you mean that literally.”

John stood, exhaling. He hated being in agreement with the sadistic Ratcliffe over that poor lad, but there was nothing else to be done. “I do.”

John hoped that Thomas would miraculously get himself together, and he gave him several last, stern warnings to try and save him from his fate. It pained him to see how very seriously the boy took the scoldings, and how hurt he looked at each biting word. His chastened blush also infuriated John, belonging more in a schoolroom than on a ship.

Thomas' uncertainty began to turn into depression. No matter how hard he tried, he always ended up not only being useless, but a downright nuisance. He could do nothing right. The men were kind enough to him, but even they could not fully cover all his mistakes. It was hopeless, he began to think, absolutely hopeless. All his dreams of adventure had been juvenile fancies, and he was a fool to have let them lead him here. He did not belong out here. This was a brave new world, for brave new _men_ , and he apparently was not one of them.

John delayed taking action against the lad for a while, but finally an incident occurred to force his hand. The weather was starting to turn, and the seas were cold and rough. A man fell overboard due to Thomas' shoddy work with the ropes and his getting in the way. Thankfully, the other settler was pulled back up and was fine, but it had been an unacceptable mistake. Bad enough that Thomas' ineptitude endangered himself, John could not allow it to endanger everyone on board.

“That does it!” Smith snapped in exasperation, handing the wheel to his second and coming down to the crew. “You--” He pointed Thomas out, pretending he did not already know his name. “--come with me.”

Thomas had a sense of what that meant, and hung back. “N-now, sir?”

“Yes, now! Come!” John grabbed him roughly by the wrist and dragged him. “Perhaps the cat-o-nine can cure your chronic incompetence.”

Terrified by the idea of facing punishment, Thomas pulled out of Smith's grip on instinct. The captain whipped around to glare at him, and he took several paces backwards.

“I-it was an accident,” the youth said meekly. “I never meant to-to … I'm sorry.”

The men all held their breath, watching the scene unfold. One did not excuse themselves out of punishment, even simpletons knew that. There was murder burning in the Captain's blue eyes. No one would ever have dared argue with him, and here was this child, trying to defy himself out of being disciplined!

“It _was_ an accident, sir,” the man that had fallen piped up. He glanced at Thomas with more sympathy than he would have for a man at the gallows. “And no harm done, sir. I'm as spry as ever, isn't that right, fellows?”

There were murmurs of agreement. John was surprised the lad had so many friends, and felt himself the villain. However, now that he had met resistance, it was more important than ever to hold firm.

“Accidents are beyond human control, this was not,” Smith told them. “No harm was done, but it very easily could have been. Your orders are to carry out your jobs capably, and anything less _is_ disobedience.”

He addressed the man that had fallen. “Now, if you would not have minded dying for this man's disobedience, I would gladly refrain from punishing him. Can you say that you would not have minded?”

The man gave Thomas an apologetic look, then told Captain Smith, “No sir, I don't believe I can say that.”

Thomas wished he had been the one to go overboard, and half-considered jumping off at the very moment. Captain Smith turned on him then, his eyes narrowed. He had been in a mood for the past weeks, and today looked rather rough with a day-old stubble and his lank blond hair tied up off his face.

“And as for you,” he said harshly, taking the youth by the wrist again. “There are two kinds of people that refuse to own their actions and face their due: cowardly men and impudent children. Now, tell me, which are you to protest in such a manner?”

Thomas hung his head in shame, his face burning with embarrassment. “I-I think . . . a little bit of both, sir.”

John was a surprised at such an honest answer, and hesitated for a moment. He had treated scores of men of all ages in much harsher fashions than this, but for some reason, it was much harder with this one. He was not only young, he was . . . vulnerable. Yes, that was it. He was so very vulnerable.

Nonetheless, John pulled him along. If he did not rid the lad of that endearing vulnerability, the dangerous journey ahead would destroy him through it. Better that he suffer a little now, rather than face certain death later.

Thomas was near tears by the time they reached the cannon hold below deck. Though he did not disgrace himself by protesting further, he would have done almost anything to get out of it. _It_ _ **is**_ _a childish reaction,_ he thought, angry at himself. _I know I fully deserve it. I know I've let myself, and the Captain, down horribly. I should be thrown off the ship, and yet I can scarcely bring myself to take a whipping._

John refused to look at him as he fetched the 'cat from where he kept it amongst the weapons. Thomas mistook this for disgust, but in actuality, Smith was only trying to avoid guilt. Hurting this boy, the idea bothered him much more than it should have.

“Off with your shirt, lad,” Smith ordered, still not looking at him, “and bend slightly over that cannon.”

“Yes sir.”

John turned to watch him, finally. Thomas was blushing fiercely, his cheeks nearly the color of his hair. His fingers were trembling as they reached down to untie his tunic's belt, so much so that he could not unfasten it. John clicked his tongue in annoyance, marching over to him and deftly unfastening the knot. Thomas murmured a “thank you, sir”, and removed the shirt. He was lean from the voyage, but not unhealthily so, despite his nausea. His thin arms were beginning to blossom into sinewy, tough muscles. His back looked incredibly fragile, though, when he leaned over the cannon. John's hand tightened on the 'cat's handle. The idea of the tautly braided leather whipping into that pale, shaking flesh also gave _him_ nausea.

 _Most men would be at their best sailing under a man like John Smith,_ the youth thought. He was trembling all over, and he felt like crying, which only made him angrier at himself. _Most men would be proud. And all I have done is make mistake after mistake. I wanted to be strong and brave and proud, but I . . . I simply can't get my bearing. I hate being at sea! I hate it!_

John drew a breath, lifted the 'cat, and then lowered it. God, it was cruel! The boy was shaking so hard that his teeth were chattering, and his constant whimpered apologies were thick with nearly shed tears. He would scream, John knew he would, and the anticipation of the sound undid him.

“How old are you, lad?”

“Sixteen, sir.” Thomas lifted his head, glanced over his shoulder, one hand on his hat to keep it from falling off. “I can take it as a man, sir. Truly, I can, sir.”

“No, Thomas, I don't believe that you can,” John said dryly.

Thomas opened his mouth to protest, then shut it quickly. He bowed his head again, staying in the same position. His hat began to slide off, and he reached up to keep it in place. Smith, however, snapped, “For God's sake, take the damn thing off.”

Thomas removed it, holding it in his hand. He drew a breath, bracing himself, and began to wring the hat in both hands. _I've never been whipped, not like this,_ he fretted. His glimpse at the cat-o-nine had given him a pang of fear, and he felt panicky, trapped. He had seen public whippings before, and he knew the sound of the cracking lash tearing through skin and muscle with a snap. _Oh God._

Smith wanted to say something to him, but he refrained. What to do? The lad had to be punished, after all, _somehow_. How would he manage a lesser punishment without looking a soft-hearted fool?

“If you're going to sniffle and shake like a baby, then I suppose you must be punished like one,” John growled at the youth. He took him by the wrist and led him to the back of the room. He hunted through various drawers until he found it: a plain black leather strap. To his irritation, Thomas flinched even at this juvenile implement, but John had no more sympathy to spare for the boy. He sat down on a tall barrel, and then pulled the lad over his knees.

John unfastened Thomas' breeches and yanked them down. He was pleased that at least the youth's buttocks did not look nearly so fragile as his back. His bottom was neatly trim, but had some boyish roundness to it. The strap would mark that remarkably smooth white skin, but the bruises would heal-- eventually.

John was startled by a surge of lust that flared through him just then. He shifted the lad to the outer edge of his lap, lest he feel his damnable erection. The boy was warm and deliciously alive, his skin flushed beneath John's hand, which had rested itself on the small of the his back. A month at sea, and though John had seen many men naked since departing, he had not seen a body he really desired. This one, though, this errant boy …

John knew there was no fighting it, and so he took a moment to appraise Thomas. He let his hand curl slightly, so his fingertips pressed into the lad's fair flesh. With his tunic removed and his breeches fallen to his ankles, he was essentially naked. John no longer wanted to punish him so much at all, at least not as a Captain. What he wanted to do was smack the rounded curve of his buttocks until both cheeks were the color of his hair, then throw him to the floor and split them apart with his cock until the boy was screaming. Now _those_ would be acceptable screams.

John cleared his throat, murmured a “right, then” to himself, and took up the strap. The blood was throbbing in his cock, mindlessly inappropriate. He wondered if Thomas would refuse him, if he propositioned him. Would it be wrong, to use him when he was so vulnerable from a fresh punishment? Would it be wrong to use his hero worship to seduce him?

John cut his moral dilemma short by beginning the much-reduced whipping. He slapped the strap across the youth's buttocks forcefully. The crack of it was like a gunshot in the quiet hold, and he heard Thomas gasp. A neat red stripe crossed the width of his buttocks, shortly joined by a second. John was aching with need, and heedlessly took the frustration out on the lad. Well, he had earned it, and then some.

Thomas squirmed, though this only thrust his buttocks out farther, to his detriment when the next blow landed. There was no escaping it, he knew, but his body fought the assault regardless. Strips of fire lit his skin, burrowing deep into the muscle. He was dimly aware of deserving it, but a sense of unfairness washed over him like a wave. He was not _built_ to sail! God had made him incapable of it, and in His infinite cynicism, had destined him for this journey. Couldn't John see that? Had the man no mercy? Sympathy and comfort were a balm, but pity, self-inflicted or that of others, was a dagger. Sorrow overwhelmed Thomas, and he began to cry hysterically.

“Oh come now, lad,” Smith groaned. The yowling sobs were simultaneously amusing, gratifying, and completely disturbing. “Take it like a man.”

“I-I'm sorry, I'm so, so sorry, sir,” Thomas sniffled miserably. He was gripping his hat so tightly his knuckles were white, but his hands were still shaking. “I-I only-- Aaow! Owww!”

Smith struck him again, but then paused. Those screams were just terrible. His temper was rising, but he was angrier at himself than Thomas. _Of all the ridiculous--_ he thought, confused. _The lad deserves it, doesn't he? Why the hell am I feeling guilty for doing my job?_

“Thomas!” John roared down at him, emphasizing the name with a hefty whack. “Be a man, damn you!”

“I'm sorry, I'm sorry, Captain,” bawled the lad. He buried his face in his hands, and hat. “I was never very good with pain, sir. I'm sorry, sir!”

“Hmph. Never good with pain,” Smith muttered, shaking his head. “And what? Your father simply never disciplined you?”

“I-I never gave him much reason to,” Thomas said, wiping his eyes with a fist like a little boy. “D-don't mind me, please, sir.”

“But I _do_ mind, Thomas,” John said through gritted teeth. His heart was racing, pounding, and his erection was blazing with pain and need. Through the whole confusion, he still felt guilty, damn it!

“I know I'm pathetic, sir,” Thomas whispered. He sniffled, lifted himself up a little to glance over his shoulder. “I know it. I'm sorry I'm . . . ruining your crew, sir.”

John started to tell him this wasn't so, but he stopped himself just in time. The lad _was_ a blight on the expedition, there was no denying it. With more experienced sailors, he most likely would have been named a Jonah and thrown in the ocean to drown.

“I'll be quiet,” Thomas said, flattening himself over John's lap. “I will. Please, finish it, sir.”

Smith resumed the punishment tentatively. Thomas was quiet, but he broke down into restrained sobs after six more whacks. Though he was sobbing softly, his shoulders shook violently, and his distress was quite apparent.

“That won't do at all,” John said heatedly. “For the love of God, get up. Get up, lad.”

He took the boy by the arm and lifted him to his feet gently. He crossed his legs as best he could, hiding his erection. At the same time, he managed a glance downward. Young though he may be, Thomas was mature enough where it mattered, John noted wryly. Thomas sheepishly pulled his breeches back up, and thoughtlessly put his hat back on his head. With his hands free, he covered his face with them.

John stood and looked down at the boy, who was sniffling and sobbing before him. He looked fragile again-- _I suppose he is,_ he thought. _Just a lad, not even finished growing. The poor wretch, he's just gotten himself into more than he expected._

“Now, now.” John reached out and put a hand on the boy's shoulder. “Let's have a stiff upper lip, hm?”

Thomas shook his head, bowing his head in shame as he continued crying. “I can't. I can't, I'm sorry,” he sobbed. “I simply-- I'm not strong enough, Captain Smith. I never should have come out here! I don't belong out here! I want to go home! I-I won't make it. I know I won't. I never--”

Smith cut him off with a smart slap to the cheek. Thomas yelped, clutching his face in shock.

“Don't you **ever** say those things, Thomas,” the captain told him sternly. “Listen to me.” He took him by both shoulders now, leaned his face down to meet the youth's eyes. “The ones that say that are the ones that _don't_ make it. The ones that _die_! Do you want to die, then?”

It took Thomas a moment to find his tongue, staring into those hard, strict blue eyes of Smith's. “N-no, sir.”

“Then never say such words again, not even to yourself,” John told him earnestly. “Men who say things like that make their fears come true. They _die_ from the fear of it. You must never let your fear control you.”

“That's easy for you to say,” murmured Thomas, still sniffling. He rubbed his bottom, trying to ease the burn, but the rasp of the rough fabric of his breeches set the bruises alight with pain. He caught John's eye, and winced at his expression. “I only meant that-that you're fearless, sir.”

“Fearless! No man is fearless, lad,” John said gently. “We survive by hiding our fear, but never ignoring it. We admit it, own it, and move past it. No one is too weak to do that, **no one**.” He cupped the side of the boy's face in the palm of one hand, rough fingers cooling the red handprint the slap had left. “Not even you, lad.”

Thomas stared up at him, surprised by the sudden compassion. For the first time, he realized that John was trying to protect him. The whipping had not been done for cruelty's sake, but to keep him from dooming himself. He was amazed that this strong, renowned man would bother with kindness towards a hopeless child such as himself, and gratitude overwhelmed him.

“C-Captain Smith, I . . . ”

John exhaled, gave the lad a weary smile. His hand was rested on his shoulder, and he tightened his grip a bit. He thought he saw some reflection of his own desires in Thomas' boyish round eyes. They were blue, John noticed, but so dark as to look brown. The navy shade of the early night sky, before it pitched into black.

Thomas felt the odd spark of desire between them, and it confounded him. His face wrinkled in bafflement. The two were standing close, he looking up at his Captain with adoration, and John looking down at him with a warmth that went beyond friendship. In the silent, intimate little moment, Thomas found himself swept up by a surge of romance. It frightened him, feeling this way for a man, contemplating such a grotesque sin. Would it be grotesque, though? No, nothing could be, not with John, not with a man like him …

“Better now?” John asked. He knew it was time to distance himself from the boy, before he resorted to using him shamelessly. He always kept some kind of company out at sea, but he did not want to seduce this poor lost soul. He did not think the poor lost soul would even comprehend the implications of such usage, or its workings.

“N-not really, sir,” Thomas said, sniffling one last time. He finished drying his eyes, and rubbed his backside again. His skin tingled with shock of the pain, and he could feel the warmth of the beating even through his breeches. “Mmph. God, does it hurt.”

“Well, you'll survive it,” Smith chuckled, giving the youth a pat on the back that nearly toppled him. “I'll give you a few moments to gather yourself.”

“Yes sir.”

“Then right back to work, understand?”

“Yes sir.”

“Good lad.”

John turned and headed for the stairs. Thomas took a step after him, then stopped. “Captain?”

“Yes?”

He had barely turned back around when the boy rushed into his arms. Their lips met in a desperate, inexperienced kiss. John's eyes widened in shock. _I never would have thought the lad capable of such boldness! So, there **is** some bravery in him after all, reckless as it may be._

Thomas kissed the man, long and deeply. It was the first time since boarding the ship that he felt happy, safe, and wanted. The captain's arms wrapped around him, strong and comforting. His hands ran down his naked back, making him shiver, and then cupped his bottom. Thomas whimpered slightly at the resultant pain, and it brought him back to himself.

“Mmmm--oh. Ohhh, what--I--” he stammered, breaking out of the kiss. “My God!” he gasped, his face flushed bright red, the taste of John still moist on his thin lips. “My God, I-I'm so--”

“Shhh. No more apologizing,” laughed John, shushing him by putting a finger to the youth's thin lips. He put some strictness into his voice for fun as he told the poor boy, “I think you've gone far past the point of that.”

Thomas cringed, shrinking back in the man's arms. “Y-yes sir. I don't know what-- I'm-- I don't know what's the matter with me, sir!”

“I think I do.” John knelt to pick up the youth's hat, which had flown off when he raced into the kiss. He dusted it off on his knee, placed it atop the boy's head. “You're young, scared, and lonely. Nothing unnatural about that.”

“But-but--I . . . I . . . I kissed you.” Thomas straightened his hat before it fell in his eyes. “I kissed you.”

John could not stop a smile from tugging his lips. “Yes, you did indeed.”

Thomas puzzled over it, licking his lips nervously. “I . . . don't understand,” he said, hugging himself. “Men can't-- I mean, we, I-- What is the matter with me, sir?”

“Nothing, Thomas, nothing.” John smoothed some of the lad's red hair off his face, tucking it beneath the cap. “It happens, lad. Out here, it doesn't count. Do you understand me?”

“I think so, but-- is it wrong?” Thomas looked up at him, and smiled a little shyly. “It felt . . . It felt good. It felt right.”

John tipped his face up by the chin. “Did it now?”

Thomas nodded. He hesitated, then leaned up to press his lips to John's. This caused the captain to burst into laughter. “That is quite a timid kiss after the first one.”

Thomas blushed. John put an arm around his waist and pulled him close. There was no point in fighting it any more, especially since Thomas seemed to be perfectly suited to being a man's companion. At least, as such he would have the protection and mentoring he needed. Of all the young men Smith had occasionally taken under his wing during his adventures, he did not think he had ever truly _liked_ one as much as Thomas.

John kissed him, lifting him up with an arm beneath his bottom. He brought him over to a tarp-covered stack of ammunition crates and sat him atop it. Thomas looked a bit nervous, but he was trusting, and not as hesitant as one might have expected. His slender hands, blistered but not yet calloused, reached out shyly but surely. He touched and explored like a child, but had John undressed with the skill and speed of any port whore.

Speaking of which …

“You're not a virgin, Thomas, are you?”

Thomas' mouth gaped unattractively. “Ah-- no, sir. That is-- I … I was that scared to be leaving home, you see, sir, and I thought … if I didn't make it, I should … that is … ” Thomas blushed scarlet, licked his lips. “She says as how we're promised to marry when I have a home in the colony, so it's like as if she's a wife, and how it wasn't a sin. Was it? Is this?”

John snorted in amusement. “Would it stop you if it was, boy?”

Thomas had a hand on John's chest, just by his heartbeat. He looked up at him, smoothing his palm down his chest. Thin golden hairs tickled the sore skin of his palms, and a finger nudged accidentally at his nipple. He felt John shudder with lust, and found himself aroused to have caused such a reaction. Meantime, other reactions were making him somewhat doubt that even God himself could make him stop what had started.

“No, sir,” Thomas whispered. “No, sir, it wouldn't.”

John put an arm around him and drew him into a kiss so deep Thomas thought he would melt into him entirely. He grew more voracious in his lust, alien as the sensations were. All this time, he had felt so alone, and now he had someone finally this close to him-- it was an irresistible comfort. He only wanted to be closer, no matter how hard they were pressed together, he wanted _more_. If it was a sin, this exotic pleasure, well he was already burning in a sense. Might as well go up in flames.

As if inspired by this decadent thought, Thomas reached down and opened John's breeches. His hands shook and his spine went weak when he felt the hardness of the man's erection, so close to his own. Odd, it was almost ludicrously odd, he thought, but that more appealing. Of course, he had found it odd his first time, with a girl, a month ago. The strange mystique of sex had not worn off the youth yet, and he was the more enticed for it.

For the second time, John slipped Thomas' breeches off. Thomas was shaking again, looking away shyly. Quite demure, all of a sudden, John noted dryly. He supposed religion gave the lad a kind of shame of his lust, and seeing it so obviously displayed as it was embarrassed him. John briefly laid a hand on his thigh for encouragement, his other hand thoughtfully bristling the patch of red hair above his cock. Embarrassment forgotten, Thomas threw his arms around John's neck, kissing him until they ran out of breath. John gave his bottom a pat when they pulled apart, and turned him over the crates. He ran his hands over the hot welts on Thomas' backside, no longer guilty for them. He felt that peculiar sense of pride one gets after having punished another man, and thought the scarlet marks quite erotic. He clenched the youth's buttocks in both hands, squeezing and parting them a bit, as Thomas gasped in painful rapture.

Smith was surprised with the lad's eagerness. He had thought he would have to be overly gentle, but Thomas invited roughness. He bucked into him like a stallion, once the initial shock of pain wore off. John always had a reserve of doubt when taking a man for their first time, and he was always relieved when they liked it.

The two ended up on the floor, a deal of time later, wrapped and tangled up in the tarp. Thomas was gasping for breath, but still kissing John's neck lovingly. John watched him with an amused smile, stroking his slender, naked frame.

“That was-- That was . . . incredible,” Thomas said, looking up at John dreamily. “I mean, I know it's wrong to take pleasure in . . . such things . . . but it was simply . . . incredible. I've never felt this, this . . . ”

“Incredible?”

Thomas chuckled ruefully. “Yes.”

“Nothing wrong with fulfilling your physical needs, Thomas,” Smith told him. He nestled his face in the youth's bright red hair, kissing his head as he did. He breathed in the salty, sweaty scent of him. He even smelled young, John thought, less acrid and somehow lighter than the more mature men. “Mmm. Denying yourself anything out here only leads to madness.”

“But, it's a sin, and--”

“I look at it this way, Thomas,” John said. “If God wants his children to grow, he has to allow us to nurture ourselves. A child won't grow unless it's fed, will it?”

“Food is necessary--”

“--and so is sex.” John kissed the boy's lips briefly. “Trust me.”

“I do trust you, sir,” Thomas smiled, resting his head on the man's chest.

“Good.” John gave him a last, lingering kiss, and then eased him off himself. “Then, you'll trust that it is time to get back up on deck. In case you've forgotten, there is a ship to be sailed?”

“Yes sir,” Thomas said, though he sounded a bit grudging. John began wiping him off with a moistened rag. “Sir, will we, er, be doing this again?”

“I certainly hope so,” John said, cleaning himself up now. This was purely for hygiene's sake. Men could smell sex, always, and there were no secrets to be kept on a ship. “Thanks to our dear governor bringing along his 'attendant', I was left without a cabin boy. So.” He took the lad by the shoulders, leaned his face down to meet his eyes at level. “If you are . . . lonely, let's say, you can come to my cabin. If you would like, that is.”

Thomas kissed him, one of his sweet, earnest little kisses. “I would most certainly like to, Captain Smith.”

**End of Chapter One**


	2. Chapter 2

Thomas was shame-faced when he returned to the deck, knowing his mates were looking at him with pity. A few snickered, some amused remarks about the state of his hide were made, but then business returned to usual. John was happy to see that Thomas went about his work with focused determination. He would never be a sailor, but the boy was at least paying attention. John was glad that the whipping had not been forgotten in the heady aftermath.

It was a mild evening. Thomas had had a bit too much enthusiasm beaten into him, and exhausted himself with work. He removed his shirt to get some cold air on his skin. He slowly became aware that this act caused no little attention to turn to him, though he could not fathom why.

“So, you took it like a child, did you?” a half-drunken settler, Roberts by name, chuckled. He gave Thomas a startling smack on the bottom, making the youth yelp. Roberts laughed fully at this reaction. “Oh, you poor lad. But at least he went easy on you, aye?”

“A-aye,” Thomas said, dazed. He moved to rub his backside, but refrained. They had been expecting him flogged. No wonder they had been shocked when he returned to work! By all rights, he should be in the infirmary with blood running down his back. The thought made the normally fair-skinned man go a whiter shade of pale.

“Ye are not so young, are ye?” one man asked belligerently, looking Thomas up and down. “Scrawny, but ye have to be fifteen, in the least.”

“I'm sixteen,” Thomas said. He turned his back to the deck rail to avoid any further playfully malicious spanks. “It was … Captain Smith was kind enough to go easy on me.”

The belligerent man snorted. “Hmph. Ye're a lucky little bugger then.”

The man pushed away from the group, muttering. Thomas felt his face burning, and cursed his blush-prone complexion. He adjusted his cap, for lack of anything to do.

“Was he wanting me flogged, then?” Thomas asked, a bit frustrated.

“Don't mind him, lad,” Roberts said. “Markham sailed with Smith before, as a lad. He's just jealous of your luck, I s'pose.”

“Why?”

“Why, because Smith had him flogged on that voyage, by his own hand,” Roberts said, with the attitude of one sharing a well-known story. It must have been, because many of the men around nodded. “Have you not seen the scars on his back?”

Thomas felt his stomach turn over. He had seen them: diagonal slashes of bunched flesh, grayish in color. He could imagine them open and gaping, streaming blood. He tried not to picture John wielding the cat-o-nine, whipping through skin and muscle, but he had seen him ready to do the same to him. His blood felt cold, and he gripped the deck rail tightly.

_He was jealous of my luck,_ Thomas reflected. _Well, of course he was. I can't believe … Captain Smith was so kind to me. To think that I tried to assure him that I could stand being flogged! God!_

“All right there, lad?” Roberts asked. “You look green.”

“I … I think I'll turn in,” Thomas said. He tried to smile. “Still a bit sore.”

“Of course, lad, of course,” Roberts said, clapping him on the shoulder. “And take heart, yeah? Things aren't so black as they seem. Before you know, we'll be landed on the golden shore.”

“Yes, right you are,” Thomas said. “Thank you, Roberts.”

“Twas nothing, lad.”

Thomas wandered a bit, debating. He knew that he could not sleep without seeing John again, if only to assure himself of his lenience. It was selfish, he knew, but he needed to see the warmth in John, to dispel the story of the man's flogging.

Lucky … Yes, he was very, very lucky indeed.

* * *

“No marks! Not a one!”

John Smith sighed wearily, shutting his eyes. Governor Ratcliffe himself pounded John's desk, but John kept his eyes studiously closed. The Governor's little dog, Percy, leaped from Ratcliffe's arm (no small feat, given the heft of said arm) and landed on the desk. He growled at John, who opened one blue eye to glare at the source of the racket.

“Everyone on board saw the boy's back!” Ratcliffe roared. “How do you think you look just now? I'll tell you what you look, you look a complete and utter fool! Bad enough that you drag him off without any formality, without allowing for an audience to bear witness, but to leave him unscathed?! What were you thinking?!”

“Firstly, he is not unscathed,” John said, looking up to meet Ratcliffe's gaze fully. “The boy is sixteen. You yourself called him a child, did you not?”

“I did,” Ratcliffe allowed through gritted teeth. “I did not mean to imply, however, that he should be punished as one. Surely, a proper flogging would have done wonders to mature him.”

“I think a proper flogging would have _un_ done him,” John said. “The lad's not a sailor, he's a settler. He's ill and away from home. All he needed was a sharp reminder of the stakes. I gave him that.”

“You gave him a schoolboy's spanking!” Ratcliffe bellowed. “A man of your reputation--”

“I have a reputation for being capable of making my own judgments upon my own men,” John interrupted, getting to his feet. “You will be the law on land, sir, but while these men stand upon the sea, they are mine to deliver there. You must trust that I can do so.”

“Oh must I?” sneered Ratcliffe.

There was a knock at the door.

“Enter,” John called.

“WHAT!” Ratcliffe demanded, whirling around to confront the intruder.

To both men's surprise, it was the lightly disciplined lad himself. Thomas flinched upon stepping into the tension, and took a step back. He murmured an excuse to go, but Ratcliffe grabbed him by the arm. He pulled him roughly into the room, shut the door, and unceremoniously threw Thomas over John's desk. Thomas had been bent over so many times this day that he did not know whether to laugh or cry.

John seemed about to laugh, Thomas saw when he lifted his head. He tried to stand, but John stayed him with a hand on his back.

“Let's see, then,” Ratcliffe demanded. He had taken hold of his dog again, and was rather brusquely stroking his head (much to the little pug's annoyance). “Or shall I simply take your word for it that you gave him a proper beating?”

“You should take my word for it, but since you don't, here.” John leaned over and reached beneath Thomas. The closeness was familiar but still new enough to be exotic, and he felt a surge of eroticism. He had the distinct urge to bite the boy's ear or give his neck a kiss, but stifled it. Instead, he unfastened the lad's breeches, and pulled them down just enough to display the effects of the whipping.

_The poor thing,_ John thought, highly amused. The redness had faded, and Thomas' buttocks were mottled with stern purple bruises. A few times, the strap had licked beneath its mark, and there were a few stripes reaching down to his upper thighs. It looked exceptionally painful, and the more appealing for all that. _There is nothing quite like seeing a man punished, all his pride and strength stripped away. It leaves a man naked, in a sense, devoid of his necessary armor. Some men face it with heartbreaking dignity and courage. The younger ones sometimes break, as this one did. Such a disgraceful fuss! But he was rather adorable throughout it, kicking and squirming, that neat little target thrust out in such an undignified manner. Still a boy. No man would have dared allow himself to be so unreservedly unseemly._

John could see that Ratcliffe was thinking along the same lines. There was a bit of flush to his face, and his hands curled from the impulse to touch the bruises. Well, that was not surprising, John thought. Ratcliffe had brought his own personal company for the voyage, a scrawny little thing named 'Wiggins'. The unfortunate wretch had absolutely nothing padding his bony backside, but John had heard Ratcliffe whip him on occasion. It gave John a start to realize that even the delicate, fussy Wiggins had never made a spectacle of his punishments the way Thomas had. _Well,_ John thought, trying to defend Thomas, _perhaps that Wiggins simply enjoys it. He seems the type._

“Well, he's black and blue enough,” Ratcliffe grudgingly admitted. Unable to help himself, he pressed his thumb cruelly into a particularly nasty welt. Thomas gave a boyish cry, and Ratcliffe smirked. “It would have been preferable if you had given him a few stripes on his back for the men to see, but I suppose it's sufficient … _this_ time.”

“Th-thank you, my lord,” Thomas said meekly.

John was not very happy with his new lover's backside being ogled by the greedy Governor. Hapless as always, Thomas seemed content to stay there with his arse in the air. John gave said arse a smack and ordered him to get up. Thomas hastily scrambled to his feet, bringing his breeches back up, after which he stood turning interesting shades of red and staring at the floor.

Ratcliffe's eyes flicked from John to Thomas, and back again. He seemed to realize something, and his temper was sedated. Understanding wordlessly passed between he and John.

“See to it there is no need for another lesson,” Ratcliffe told Thomas. “If there is, I'll expect it to be a harsher one.”

“I won't, sir,” Thomas said. “I mean, there won't be another one, no need for one, not at all, sir.”

“Hmph. See to it.” Ratcliffe looked at John knowingly. “Good night, Captain Smith.”

“My Lord Governor.”

Ratcliffe left, and Thomas let out the breath he had been holding. John squeezed his shoulder, and went to fetch a bottle of his private stock of wine. Thomas collapsed onto a chair, gave a cry of pain, and jumped to his feet again. Laughing, John poured a glass of wine and handed it to him.

“I about died, sir,” Thomas said contritely. “I knew the men were all expecting me flogged, but I never thought the Governor would expect it. Is he terrible upset, do you think, sir?”

“I think he understands,” John said, pouring himself a glass of wine. _More than he should,_ he added mentally. “Don't you mind him, Thomas.”

“He frightens me,” Thomas said softly, more to himself than to John. He took another gulp of wine, looking around the captain's cabin. He was spent to the marrow of his bones, but dared not sit. “They told me about the man who sailed with you when he was young, sir. The one with the scars on his back still, sir? That was what everyone expected to be done to me, wasn't it, sir?”

“Yes.”

Thomas took a deeper drink of wine, searching John's eyes. “Why didn't you?”

“That was a different situation entirely,” John explained. He sat on the edge of his desk. “Markham was not an unfortunate child, not at all. He was a defiant, troublesome man, even at that age. He was the kind of man that starts a mutiny, if they're not put in place quickly. He started a fight, nearly started a panic wrongfully accusing men of having an outbreak of fever and wanting to send them overboard. Every lash was well-earned, never think otherwise.”

“O-oh.”

“Thomas, I know it seems cruel to you,” John said gently. “But would it not be crueler to refuse to lead men, even as they follow another into chaos? Into tragedy?”

“Is it difficult, sir?” Thomas asked curiously. “The flogging?”

“All of it is difficult,” John admitted. “But not so difficult as living with the burden of inaction. Do you understand that?”

“Yes,” Thomas said after a moment's consideration. “Yes, I believe I do.”

“Good lad.”

Seeing that Thomas was swaying with exhaustion, John took his empty wine glass from him. Knowing the youth would be sore enough the next day without having to sit down now, he led him to his bed. Thomas lay on his stomach, sighing in pleasure at the fine feather mattress. He buried his face in the pillow for a long moment, nearly suffocating from the feathery odor.

“An actual bed,” he said, lifting his face and sneezing. “All to yourself. I've never had a bed to myself before, nor yet one with such a fine mattress.”

“There are benefits to being a leader of men,” John said with a smile. The scent of feathers and his own body sweat rose from the mattress, mingling with Thomas' younger unique smell. John pulled off his hat, turning it over in his hands ponderously. “Why the cap, boy? I never see you without it.”

“I, er, as to that … Well, I had lice once.” He scratched a spot in his red hair at the memory. “When it was gone, my parents got me that. It would hardly stay on my head when we first bought it, but I grew into it. Never had the lice again and, well, I suppose I've just gotten used to it. My mother never let me out of the house without it.”

Thomas had smiled at the memory of home, but then he grew serious. John was seated at the edge of the bed, and Thomas put his head in his lap. John ran his fingers through his gingery hair. Surely enough, his scalp was free of lice. He doubted even the cap could keep the common nuisances away forever, let alone body lice, but refrained from saying so.

“Will I ever see them again, sir?”

John wished he could tell him that they would be reunited one day, certainly. However, the truth of it was that there was a very good chance Thomas would never see his family again. He might be killed by the New World. His family might die of any number of plagues the London poor suffered. Accidents could whisk life away as quickly as it granted it.

“I don't know, Thomas,” John said honestly.

Thomas sniffed, and scrubbed the back of a hand across his eyes. It was moist when he took it away, but his eyes were dry again. John bent his head down to kiss his forehead, swinging his legs up onto the bed. Thomas obligingly pushed over to give him room.

“It's all right, lad, go on and cry.”

Thomas looked up in surprise. “But--”

“I was your captain earlier, when I told you to be a man,” John said. “Right now, I'm only John Smith. And I know how you feel. I left home very young. No one was there for me, but … let me be here for you. For one last night, be a child. Miss your family and your home, mourn friends you'll never set eyes on again, and be afraid of this journey. Let it all out. You can grow up in the morning.”

“Oh sir,” Thomas choked, his voice cracking. He lifted himself up and embraced John tightly. All the misery of the past month crashed down on him, and he began to sob into his shirt. “I-I'm just so frightened, sir. I thought I would be stronger. I really did. I thought I was r-ready. But I'm not excited anymore or anything, nothing but-but disappointed in myself and-and-and--”

“Frightened,” John provided, patiently stroking his back as if he were a small child.

“I'm a coward!” Thomas wailed, increasingly upset. “And nothing I d-do is right. Nothing. Everyone else is so good with everything, and I'm only small and weak and-and a boy. Just a stupid little boy.”

“You _are_ a boy, there's no shame in it,” John said with an affectionate smile. He held the slender lad closely, kissing his cheek, behind his ear. He patted his back steadily, a curiously paternal gesture. “It will be all right, lad. You'll get your bearings. You'll learn. I can teach you. I'll make a man out of you if it kills us both.”

“It probably will,” Thomas said glumly. He slumped in John's arms, resting his head against the man's chest. “I could have killed a man today. All I've thought about since you took me to be punished was myself, but that was the reason for the whole thing. How can I be so selfish?”

“You're not,” John said. “You would not be out here risking your life to bring your family a better future if you were selfish. You were simply frightened, and little wonder. Floggings _are_ to be feared.”

“And I couldn't even take one, at that.” Thomas wiped his eyes. “John? Sir?”

John was beginning to feel drowsy himself. He leaned back against the pillows, yawning. “Mm?”

“You didn't spare me a flogging only because you … well, because you wanted to … have me.” Thomas blushed. “Did you?”

“A flogging would have broken you, and I would never break a man,” John replied. He caressed the youth's shoulder, and gave the tip of his upturned nose a kiss. “I am very fond of you, however, and I will admit that I was loath to scar you. You have lovely fair skin, like most redheads.”

Thomas looked down at the display of said skin on the back of his hands dubiously. Truth be told, he was growing tired of his fair complexion, as it tended to crack and itch when exposed to the sun on a clear day. Not to mention how often his emotion was given away by all that damned blushing! Of course, if it had saved him a flogging, that certainly outweighed the smaller annoyances.

Thomas took John's hand in his own. It was calloused and his skin was tanned from travel and weather, a strong and capable hand. Thomas' own looked small, pale, and weak beside it. He kissed John's thick knuckles, and then moved closer to kiss his neck. The stubble of a day's growth of beard scratched his own smooth skin, and the sensation (so different from kissing a woman!) gave him an erotic thrill. Thomas opened his mouth onto John's, and the captain kissed him back with languid pleasure.

“I was so alone, John,” Thomas sighed, sinking into John's arms again. “I felt so alone. Thank God for you, John, even if this is a sin.”

John lay down, keeping the lad rested on his chest. Thomas settled down for sleep, pulling the covers tightly over them.

“I had already decided to spank you,” John said, back to the point. “I could not bring myself to flog you, before I even knew I wanted you.”

“When did you realize that, then?”

John snorted, recalling the unexpected and rude announcement of his desire that his body had made. “It was just then, right when I put you over my knees,” he said. “Well, you were essentially naked, and it has been a month since we shoved off. There you were, with that wonderful pert arse of yours completely offered up to my mercy. In all honesty, I didn't even want to whip you.”

“You didn't?”

“Not to say I didn't want you punished,” John said firmly. “You've put me through absolute hell, you do know that? No, I wanted to hurt you, definitely. But I wanted to use my hand, to get the feel of your bum trembling under my palm. I swear to God, next time, I'll be sure to do so.”

Thomas' stomach felt floppy and queer. He did not know whether to dread this scenario or desire it. “I did say that I wouldn't give you cause for another lesson.”

“Oh, you will,” smiled John. “Not many things are certain in life, Thomas. It's a rare treat to be able to depend upon a prophecy. And I assure you, it can be depended upon that you will earn yourself a smacked bottom or two before this adventure is over.”

Thomas buried his face in the crook of John's arm, not knowing what to say to this. John chuckled, ruffling his hair. He reached for the oil lamp on the table and turned it off, leaving them in darkness.

“If you're fond of me, how could you enjoy beating me so?”

John's smile was lost in the darkness. The petulance in Thomas' voice made it clear that he was not too old to sulk.

“There are many more pleasures to be had from sex than you'd know,” he said. “There is an order and a violence to it. One gives, one receives. One leads, one follows. It is like discipline in that, and there is pain. You enjoyed that pain, did you not?”

“I did, didn't I?” Thomas marveled.

“You did,” John confirmed dryly. “I did not truly harm you, I merely gave you a spanking-- a well-deserved one at that. Did you not find something erotic about it? Were you not incited by the arousal of the thing to run into my arms and kiss me in thanks?”

“It-it wasn't in thanks!”

John grinned, a flash of white teeth in the moonlight. “Wasn't it?”

Thomas opened his mouth to protest, then shut it. He frowned deeply, clinging to the man's chest as he pondered his words. _Had_ he been aroused by it? John had slipped his hand under his breeches and was rubbing his sore bottom. The bruises throbbed beneath his touch, but Thomas had to admit that he did not want him to stop. John gave him a little pinch, a tiny twist of fire, and Thomas felt something stir in his loins.

“I was shocked, when you threw me over your lap as if I were no more than a babe,” Thomas said softly. “I was frightened, but … I felt odd. Alive, like. I could feel the very air on my skin, and every inch that was exposed. For just a moment, it was almost relieving. I'd been trying so hard to be the man an expedition like this demands, but over your knees, John, I … I was just the child I felt like. It was simple, nothing expected of me but to take my punishment.”

Thomas thought back. He remembered the feel of John's legs through his boots, as he clutched at him for some sort of support. The way a shift of John's knee lifted his buttocks humiliatingly. How good it felt to be able to scream and cry, let everything he had been holding in be beaten out.

“Yes,” Thomas finally assented. “Yes, I was grateful.”

“And quite fortunate,” John said. “You don't intend to go on kissing men in that manner, do you?”

“Oh, no sir!” Thomas exclaimed. He buried his face in John's shirt. “I still don't know what came over me. I've never been the sort that-- I mean, I'm not a-a wanton sodomite. Or … I wasn't.”

John began to shake, and Thomas looked up at him in horror.

“I don't see how it's funny, sir!”

“Ah ha, no, you wouldn't, would you?” John chuckled, trying to suppress his mirth. “Poor lad. Get some rest, you'll need it.”

“How can you possibly laugh at--at--”

John gave his bottom a light swat. “Hush, lad. Sleep now. You've had a long enough day.”

Thomas was already falling into a doze. He murmured something unintelligible. John stroked his back and patted it alternatively, giving his face and the top of his head little kisses. Within minutes, Thomas' breathing had slowed into the deep, steady rhythm of sleep.

John had to admit that he had missed having another in his bed. A longtime traveler, John had long since given up any notion of being choosy about who he chose to share his nights with. Loneliness was insidious, it crept into a man like the chill of a foggy night. Before he even realized it, the cold was rooted into his core, and he felt that he would never be warm again. John usually prepared to fight the freeze of loneliness, but the thought had simply not entered his mind this time. He was excited to be sailing to the New World for colonization purposes, and had been uncharacteristically introspective until now.

John was grateful, as well, though he would never dare tell Thomas that. He was glad the unlucky lad had crossed his path, even in such a tumultuous way. The shock of lust had been so overwhelming that he had been forced to succumb to it, and thank God that Thomas had been receptive. Now he had a warm, neat body in his arms, a shade in the moonlight. The boat creaked and groaned around them, above the splashing of the waves. The sea was a lonely place indeed. There was no place like it to enjoy the merging of bodies, holding to solidity in a world of water.

** End of Chapter Two **


	3. Chapter 3

The days passed in relative peace. The sea was cold but calm, the skies clear. With only wood and metal separating them from the pitiless sea, the men worked hard to keep their ship alive and under way. After another month, the strain of accustoming themselves to the work waned into competent tedium. The men began to focus on their plans for the New World, exchanging stories about what they might do once they arrived there. John shook his head at their extravagant plots and expectations, but allowed them their dreams: those were the fuel that would fire their efforts upon landing.

John kept an eye on Thomas, always. The youth was still rather hopeless, but he at least managed to keep himself out of catastrophic trouble. John was relieved to have made the right choice in dealing with him. Ratcliffe would have thought him an utter incompetent if Thomas had continued to fatally fail in his duties.

John glanced across deck at the Governor's cabin. Ratcliffe was surly, but had not gone out of his way to fight John's command. Today, he seemed in an almost pleasant mood, by his standards. His companion (assistant, officially, John noted wryly) was fussing over him, trimming his hair. They exchanged some words, looking out to give some of the settlers a disdainful glance, and laughed.

Even a man as dour as Ratcliffe had brought company, John mused. One would think the man's black heart would be perfectly fine biding its time alone on a ship. Yet he had brought along that Wiggins fellow, who left his side less frequently than his lap dog did. John wondered if the little dog was lonely, and the thought made him bow his head to hide a laugh.

That evening, Thomas managed a minor bit of trouble. Not that he found himself at fault. The odious little dog Percy had been running around the deck, going mad barking at some seagulls that were circling after a bucket of unsightly matter spilled on deck. Wiggins was running after him, trying not to step in the stuff, while Thomas was trying to swab the mess away without mopping the dog itself across the desk. One turn led to another, and eventually both men collided, while Percy skittered over them and brought himself back to Ratcliffe's cabin on his own. The dog would have told them he would be done with his play soon, that they need not bother chasing him, but then, he could not talk.

“Oh, would you watch where you're stepping?!” Thomas snapped irritably. He was warm and tired and the deck smelled insufferably disgusting. He got to his feet, brushing himself off, and threw the mop aside.

Affronted, Wiggins got to his feet, straightening his own outfit. “Hmph. I'm not the one who can't tell fore from aft, you redheaded dolt.”

Wiggins was too busy and far too important (in his mind) to bother any more with Thomas. He turned on his heels and headed for Ratcliffe's cabin. But then--

“Oh, am I a dolt? Who do you think _you_ are, you little fop?”

Wiggins stopped, mouth twitching in an annoyed quirk. His fists curled, and he whirled back to Thomas. “Oh ho! A fop, am I?”

Thomas ignored him, picking up the mop and continuing his work. He wanted to finish with everything and collapse somewhere. Preferably, collapse in John's cabin, nestled into his bed and his arms.

“And what do you mean by that?” Wiggins asked. He snatched the mop from Thomas, incredibly fast, and tossed it aside. “Do you honestly look down on me, sir?”

Thomas, short but still having an inch or two on Wiggins, lifted his head. “As a matter of fact, I--”

“Don't be droll,” Wiggins said, rolling his eyes. “You know what I meant. Do you honestly believe that you're somehow better than me?”

Thomas removed his cap, brushed his hair back, and set it back in place. “I have real work to have done,” he said wearily. “If you would only--”

“No, I will not 'only',” Wiggins said, stepping toward him as if he thought this might be a menacing gesture. “You are no better than me. Are you so dense that you don't realize that we are actually being compared?” Wiggins snorted, looking Thomas up and down. “As if an intolerably redheaded peasant could ever aspire to being the Governor's assistant.”

“What did you say?” Thomas asked. “What do you mean, 'compared'?”

Wiggins raised his thin, arched eyebrows. “You really are that thick,” he observed. “God! We're on a ship, boy!”

“I'm not a boy,” scowled Thomas. “You can't be much older than I am, surely.”

“I'm twenty-two,” Wiggins said, with great dignity. He lifted his pointy nose further in the air, looking at Thomas with narrowed eyes. He sobered. “And I know what I am.”

Thomas crossed his arms. “And what exactly is that?” he sneered.

Wiggins bristled. For the first time, his vacant, gratingly cheerful facade gave way. He looked very small, just a horse-faced young man wearing fussy clothing. He smiled, without showing his teeth for a change.

“I was a sickly child,” Wiggins said. He gestured down at himself. “Rather obvious, I suppose. We had nice things, but after my father died … we never ate very much. Did you know, my mother once contemplated drowning me?”

Thomas' spine felt filled with cold seawater. He dropped his arms, staring dumbfounded at the man. Wiggins was looking far out into the ocean. He walked to the rail and gripped it in both hands. Thomas stood beside him.

“She hated me, my mother,” Wiggins said dispassionately. His thin shoulders lifted in a shrug. “Well, why not? We could not afford me a great education, and I was not a daughter that could easily be married off. I was quite obviously not meant for sailing or labor. I always thought I had the hands of a craftsman--” Wiggins held out his hands, surveying their spindly, delicate digits. “--but no one would have me for an apprentice. I looked too unhealthy, you see.”

“I … I had no idea,” Thomas said uncomfortably. “I'm sorry.”

“There was no reason for you to know or wish to, and even less reason for you to be sorry for me,” Wiggins said. “I _was_ a pitiful thing, but no longer. I accepted everything I would never be, and took stock of what little I had. Good enough breeding. My mother had some social connection. I charmed, I served, I groveled, and I'll freely admit that. And in the course of things, I've made my way here.”

“But don't you … don't you want to have pride?”

“I do have pride,” Wiggins said. “I'm proud to serve greater men than myself. I would never be a great man, God simply cut me from a lesser cloth. I'm fine with that.”

“Greater men,” Thomas echoed. He hated to admit it, but he could see that point.

Wiggins was a more perceptive fellow than he looked, and he caught Thomas' look. He turned back to him. “We are on a ship, Red,” he said. “There are no secrets on a ship. For everything that happens and is said, someone sees and hears it. Everyone knows what you're doing with John Smith. It's only out of respect for him and some unfathomable liking of you that stays tongues. Well, they don't remark to your faces, in any case.”

Thomas was staggered. He looked around at the men in paranoia. Wiggins made an amused sound somewhere between a series of snorts and a giggle.

“You really are an idiot,” he said, shaking his head. “You have no idea how the world works. Don't look down on me, boy, not if you're so completely unaware of where you actually stand.”

With that, Wiggins turned on his heel, and stormed off. Thomas sank to the deck, leaning his back against the rail. Was it true? Did the men really know? He wanted to disregard Wiggins' words as a spiteful lie, but there had been a deep ring of truth in everything he'd said.

Thomas wished to discuss the matter with John desperately, but he could not bring himself to approach the captain's cabin. He wondered whether he ever would be again. He did not want to end up a reputed sinner, but the idea of suffering the rest of the voyage without John's support was unimaginable. Only considering it made his breath come up short.

Thomas dully retrieved the mop and continued working. He was too numb to think or feel. He could only move.

* * *

Three days later, John called Thomas to his cabin.

“You've been avoiding me.”

Thomas' eyes widened. “Wh-- Oh, no, sir, it's only … I've been fearful busy, and--”

“Thomas, Thomas, calm down,” sighed John. He was sitting behind his desk, finishing a log entry. “Do not bother with excuses or lies. You have no reason to fear me so. Take a breath, and tell me what's the matter.”

“It's … Wiggins, sir.”

This made John look up from his log book. “Wiggins?” He set down his quill and leaned back in his chair. “Ratcliffe's Wiggins?”

“Yes, sir.” Thomas sat down in the chair opposite John's desk. “He … He said that secrets can't be kept on a ship. He said that everyone knows about us. Is that true, sir?”

“Yes.”

Thomas stared at him in disbelief. “And you don't-- I mean, you-- Does it not bother you, sir?”

“It's a ship, Thomas,” John told him. “In ships and in prisons, there is a code of silence. True, I have heard of some overzealous captains attempting to crack down in the name of God's supposed law--”

“ _Supposed_?” Thomas gasped at the implied blasphemy of the word.

“I only mean that men have made a mess of all laws of Heaven and Earth,” John said, reminding himself of who he was talking to. He stood and retrieved a wine bottle and two glasses. “Yet there are places of such desperation and darkness that sense prevails over accepted morality.”

“I don't understand,” Thomas said, frowning deeply. “There is right and wrong, good and bad, the right side and the wrong.”

“You're young,” John smiled wistfully. “Very young. You've only lived in values and dreams. Do you remember the way you felt just after I punished you? How even such a painful connection set your body alight with the fires of desire and need? Can you recall being driven so blindly mad with desire that you set aside rank and morality simply to connect with me?”

Thomas was staring at his hands. “I do,” he said softly. “It was as if I were outside myself and yet completely myself at the same time. That person was more than myself … yet … ”

“You were yourself outside of your preconceived ideas of who you are, outside of the expectations you've been trying to live up to,” John said. He tapped his fingers against his wineglass. “The core of a person differs, I find, from the person one must be in civilization. Out here, men are free of all responsibilities save working and surviving. All men must find a way to survive, all men understand that struggle, and so even if they may not agree with another's methods, they respect the fact that their fellow is only doing what he must to keep going.”

“I see,” Thomas said slowly. He took a long drink of wine. “Mm. Yes, it's much like the liquor. Imbibing so much on land would make one a drunkard, but no one sees anything wrong with drinking themselves near drunk every night while at sea.”

“Precisely,” John said. “Besides, we're hardly the only ones doing it. There is Ratcliffe and Wiggins, and several other men at least. It means nothing. We'll land, the affair will end, and one day you'll have a wife and children.”

Thomas did not look too pleased with this prophecy. John hoped that he had not started harboring unrealistic ideas of what they were. He was very fond of the boy, but not so fond that he would swear off women and take him up as a permanent lover. The notion made John get up to fetch himself something stronger than wine.

Thomas murmured something so softly that John missed it. “What?”

Thomas took a deep breath, and fortified himself with more wine. He stood then, and faced John. He could not meet his eyes long, however, and ended up staring at his hands. “Do you not love me at all?”

It was said nearly as softly, but John could not have missed it. The words struck him at his center, and he was unable to reply for a few minutes. He'd had boys before, of course, but none ever so naïve as to romanticize the relationship. He knew that he should simply deny him, but …

In truth, he _did_ love Thomas a little bit, and he told him so.

Thomas set down his wineglass and kissed John, wrapping his arms around his neck. He tasted of wine and the salted meat he had had for supper. It was a sweet, sincere kiss, though none the less thorough for all that.

“I do love you, John,” Thomas murmured into his ear. “So much.”

“Thomas--”

“I'm not a complete fool, I know we'll not be together forever,” Thomas sighed. He pulled back to look up into John's eyes. “But I'll always love you, regardless. And, well,” Thomas' gaze slid to the cabin's bed, “so long as we _are_ together … ”

“So long as we are together,” John said, picking Thomas up with a swift heave, “we might as well enjoy it. We may connect out of necessity, but that doesn't make the connection any less pleasant, does it?”

Thomas curled his face into John's neck, pressed tight against him. “No,” he said with a sigh of content, “no less pleasant at all.”

**The End**


End file.
